Issue Preclusion
by ThingsBeforeBreakfast
Summary: As Sherlock hides in Molly's flat, the great consulting detective doesn't detect what should be detected. Which is a shame.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: my first try at fanfic, so please, no extreme cruelty. Slight cruelty absolutely fine.**

**Post Reichenbach Fall, some fluffiness, not really sure yet.**

**BBC and the magical Moffat and Gatiss own everything Sherlock sourced, no copyright infringement intended.**

When Sherlock stopped to think about it there wasn't really anything wrong with Molly's mouth. Or breasts for that matter.

Of course if he'd had it his way he wouldn't have time to stop and think about it at all. In fact he absolutely hated stopping, the restlessness of his mind was quite unbearable.

Which was why not moving from her armchair for the past 14 hours was beginning to bore him as well. Unbelievably, he'd run out of things to dissect with scalpel sharp intellect.

Of course, there was Moriarty ever present in the background. Sherlock was certain that if he'd survived the fall, Moriarty would have survived the gun. They were the same. But having exhausted all the potential paths of action Sherlock could take from inside Molly's flat, there wasn't anything left to do, until he could leave there at night.

He smirked at the thought of Moriarty hiding in another girly flat to avoid being discovered, since they were so alike. Then Sherlock remembered he probably had been here. The thought made him shudder for Molly and he reasoned again that Moriarty would be punished. Winning the game, hurting him, him hurting her, her loving him, that was strange wasn't it, her loving him irrationally, hopelessly. A normal person might care, he thought, as he went into a semi sleep.

Sherlock would make his first foray in a week and four hours, when he reasoned public interest would be zero, though he would still have to hide during the day. And now, he was bored. Horribly bored. And thinking about Molly. Which was of course a symptom of boredom, given Molly was tremendously dull.

Sherlock felt happy to admit that she was well above average in intelligence. Perhaps not as enjoyable company as John, but certainly better company than most others, given she could text him the results of his experiments and could dissect almost anything on command.

On the other hand there was her annoying habit of not being able to formulate a sentence in his presence, but her poor attempts at romance were bearable. Oh, and she'd saved his life, when she was following _his_ instructions. In short she was exactly as Sherlock described, she mattered. Not inordinately but still.

The light shifted lower and peaked through the very bottom of the curtains, lighting the floor and his feet, as though afraid of hitting Sherlock's pale face with warmth. It bathed the flat in a pinkish glow, turning the bottom of Molly's white walls to the shade of her lips, when she was cold. Why had he noticed_ that_. Unimportant. Sherlock deleted the thought whilst looking round her flat as attentively as the first time he'd done it.

It was the horrendously cramped, probably ex-servant quarters of a large Victorian house north of St Bart's. Probably fairly expensive given the location, even if the roof leaked in places even Molly hadn't discovered. Sherlock's head nearly brushed the ceiling in some rooms.

After 221b and John's compulsive military tidying, Molly's flat was like a breath of stale air. It was pokey and largely disorderly, which Sherlock could cope with, but didn't have enough fridge space for experiments. Molly, like John, was also annoyingly sensitive about those, refusing to bring even the smallest liver for Sherlock to pour acid on.

An interesting case of mistaken identity in Billingham, which had to be put on hold.

The cat (_she'd said Toby right?_) wound its way round Sherlock's ankles. Toby was either a remarkably intelligent or a completely stupid animal: he'd not adopted the usual feline attitude of hissing wildly at Sherlock before running away. He assumed Toby was the second category, and in search of food. Sherlock smiled inwardly as he recalled John's shock at discovering he didn't eat most days. John… That Moriarty had threatened… Maybe Moriarty had fed Toby, petted the dark fur. Sherlock shook his head, Molly's sunset filled flat was having an odd effect today, he might distract himself by testing that theory later.

He heard the key turn in the lock and the recognisably clumsy footsteps that meant Molly had gone shopping. He also heard the, by now familiar, grumble: "No no, please don't get up and help. I'll just drag this up three flights of stairs, you sit there, that's lovely..."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: It took a while but I have the rest of the story planned now! Woo!**

**Thanks to everyone who took the time to read and the oh so lovely reviewers.**

**Still don't own Sherlock, still wish I did.**

* * *

_He's not even moved,_ Molly thought as she pushed the front door closed. _And he's ridiculously, irritatingly, jaw-droppingly handsome as always…_ _he really shouldn't be allowed that. I can't make people feel stupid and get away with it._ But Sherlock could. In fact he frequently abused that fact around Molly. Particularly when his cheekbones caught the light from the lamp and darkened the hollows of his face. Particularly in the overhead lighting of the morgue. It was completely unfair.

Molly wondered, again, whether if she'd not seen Sherlock on his very first visit to St. Bart's she'd have let him get such a hold over her life. Probably, his voice was just as potent.

She moved the grocery bags into the kitchen and glanced at Sherlock surreptitiously. As usual he'd not acknowledged her entrance. Over the past week of his prolonged visit she'd begun muttering greetings every time she entered the flat, in a progressively louder voice. He'd plainly not noticed yet. It was silly, but it made her happier that she could talk back to him, when he wasn't looking.

She finished putting away the food and checking the fridge for whatever Sherlock might have left there. Molly briefly considered cooking dinner. Maybe she might ask him if he wanted anything. She shook her head, _of course he doesn't, he never eats._ She felt a wave of sympathy for John, which was quickly diluted, after all John chose to stay with his flatmate_._ And Sherlock never used John, except for doing the shopping.

It was probably only her, but the tension of having Sherlock around constantly was putting Molly on edge, the awkwardness of his silence hideously loud in the room. _Oh to hell with this!, _she spun round and marched out of the kitchen into her bedroom and away from the bizarre magnetism of Sherlock Holmes, _this is my bloody flat anyway!_

With more walls between them, Molly felt calmer. She gazed blankly around her bedroom. Sherlock had arrived at her flat without warning. _He probably thinks he told me as well. I simply should have deduced from something stupidly tiny. Maybe he had his "let's live at Molly's" socks on and I just didn't notice._

She didn't mind confirming the death certificate for him, as a favour. He'd said she'd _always counted_. How could she turn that down? She'd wanted to be needed by him so badly, to run her fingers through his hair and comfort him. But now she was left only with those feelings, crushed hopes and the dead weight of certainty that nothing would ever happen. Sherlock, beautiful, clever, voice like velvet Sherlock, was uninterested in her, beyond her unwavering loyalty to him, however undeserved.

Every woken second when she smelt him on her furniture and in the growing pile of unwashed shirts she'd pilfered from a colleague, she felt the walls getting closer. Every minute she could see him paralysed her higher functioning brain capacities and made her the total idiot he saw _and you know what? I'm actually clever, but no one would believe that around him._

Molly deliberated for a minute and then reached nervously down into her pocket and lifted the pills to her face with a shaking hand. God she'd hoped she'd never have to see those things again._ I can't afford to lose control._

She shook the bottle until a small white sphere dropped into her hand. She could down it dry rather than go back to the kitchen for a glass of water and face silent Sherlock. She raised it to her mouth.

Molly hadn't been obsessed by anything for a very long time. Her worried parents and many trips to a psychoanalyst had "sorted that out", in their eyes. And then Sherlock had appeared on her slab, covered in blood and supposedly dead. _It looked so real, it was so hard to believe he wasn't de… thingy. If I hadn't known he'd have tricked me too._ The fresh blood had soaked his dark curls into a richer, glossier hue.

Half and hour later he'd risen up and strode out of the morgue, thanking her, like a wonderfully coherent zombie. It had been an incredibly bizarre sight, seeing one of her corpses leave. She'd gone home and had tried to choke down the stress of the day with wine.

The next morning, with a hangover and no memory of the last night, Molly was greeted by the sight of the definitely-not-dead, only-a-couple-of-scratches Sherlock crouching over the remote, looking at bad television. In a sheet. Molly had been too tired to blush, so had just groaned and gone back to bed, leaving Sherlock with a slight smirk on his face. She gone back to sleep thinking she looked more like the undead than Sherlock ever had _and he'd jumped off a roof for crying out loud._

Molly lowered the pill. In an hour she would be in bed and have no need for it. She took a few deep, calming breaths and reasoned strictly: _I'm being paranoid._ She wouldn't let herself slip up like before ever again, with or without extra help.

She stowed the pills back into her pockets where she had the most faith Sherlock wouldn't find them and, after a couple more minutes, went back into the kitchen to reheat some shepherd's pie.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly woke up the next day with no recollection of going to bed. She sighed and wondered what had happened the previous night. _I should have taken them…_

The flat was completely silent, which was unusual, to say the least, what with Sherlock being cooped up in it. Molly pulled herself from the warmth of her bed to get ready for work. She showered quickly and pulled her hair up, then went towards the kitchen to get breakfast.

In the living room, occupying an indecorous amount of the sofa, Sherlock was sleeping. Molly looked at him curiously; he never seemed to have slept here before. He looked oddly at ease. His fingers curled around the edge of the coffee table and his body was free of the tension that normally drew him into a strict posture. Toby lay on the wide arm rests, looking down at him with supreme feline contempt, occasionally throwing a meow of annoyance that his bed had been stolen.

Molly, with her usual insecurity, stumbled a little closer, lifted the cat off the couch and put him on the floor. Looking around the empty flat nervously, expecting judging eyes, Molly then ever so softly brushed his dark hair, trying to not wake him up. It felt very soft beneath her fingers. _He would never let me do that awake._ Molly felt she had broken his trust a little, but his pale face did look so calm in the cold morning light.

Not wanting for him to wake up with her staring at him, _which would be unbelievably embarrassingly awkward_, Molly quickly backed into the kitchen, took out some cereal for herself and fed Toby. She kept looking at Sherlock through the open door, expecting him at any second to jump up and pace the living room. She ate quietly, trying to prolong the silence.

After, she pulled on her coat and checked that the pills were still at the bottom of her pocket, dragged her heavy bag off the floor and left for work, glancing one last time at Sherlock's sleeping form.

_He really does look peaceful, shame he has to wake up to be… well… not._

* * *

Several hours later, Sherlock woke up. He didn't normally sleep for so long, certainly not on a sofa anyway. The cat _(it must be called Toby)_ lay on his chest, purring contentedly into Sherlock's face. As he tried to get up the cat sank its retractile claws further through his shirt. They left slight scratches on his skin. Sherlock shook it off as it hissed. He glared at the animal, which stared right back and then stalked off in disgust.

Now Sherlock was awake he had nothing to do. No cases, no gun, no experiments, nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He learnt from a glance at Molly's bookshelf that there was no distraction there. A shelf dedicated to her university days and filled with books on medicine Sherlock was already familiar with, the rest were covered with her dubious taste for romantic fiction.

Deciding he might as well invest time in personal hygiene, Sherlock showered and cleaned the scratches made by the cat. He revisited his inventory of scars to ascertain he'd not missed one and dressed again in one of the rather inelegant shirts Molly had plainly not looked at before saving from whichever charity bin she'd pulled them out of. Of course he didn't mind what he wore, was grateful for the change of clothes, but these were alarmingly poorly made.

Sherlock spent the next half hour going through his already impeccably organised thoughts. After having taken so long at Baskerville to remember Liberty, Indiana, he had radically changed the classifying system in the Mind Palace, destroying certain childhood wings he no longer had a need for and had visited and tidied each room. In the attic he'd discovered a not particularly pleasant sight. Due entirely to living with her constantly, his box of information on Molly had morphed into a near closet full. He remembered everything from the Christmas party to her windswept hair as she'd come in late yesterday evening. His mind was a hard-drive, he deleted most of this and moved her to one of the smaller bathroom cupboards.

Purely for the sake of something to do, Sherlock decided to replace pointless Molly knowledge with something he might use after he left the flat. Sherlock was almost painfully aware she might be expecting some sort of compensation for his stay of a nature he was unwilling to give. He was determined to avoid that.

He strolled into Molly's room. Her walls were painted pale blue and her sheets were the cool pink of seashells. A large window faced west and a small window south. Though cramped with possessions like every other room, it was comfortably cosy.

Sherlock decided to look for some kind of diary, a girl like Molly would inevitably have one. He looked across the room. The cupboard was the most likely hiding place. Throwing open the door, Sherlock scanned her clothes briefly before pulling down a box from the shelf above. He pulled off the lid and tipped a pink diary with a small, heart-shaped padlock on the bed. Not exactly the Cretan Labyrinth.

Smiling at how easily the padlock gave, Sherlock skimmed through it. He was searching for any mention of a present she'd received, or not, that she wanted. John would be furious if he found out Sherlock had gone through Molly's possessions. Sherlock believed Molly might also have similarly ridiculous ideas on privacy.

And then, amidst pages of singleton angst, Sherlock saw Moriarty's name written in bold strokes across the pages.

That wasn't good.

Sherlock read attentively.

_Oh, Jim is just nice, he's lovely and kind. We went out yesterday afternoon to walk in the park, I have never laughed so much in my life! He's not at all like_

The next few pages had been ripped out. The writing returned with:

_Oh god… Jim has helped. Its been a blissful week seeing only him in my peripheral vision. Why the hell does he have to be a criminal mastermind? How dare Sherlock remove my lovely Irish lilt distraction! Of course it's his fault I'd met Jim. It wasn't on purpose but totally blaming him feels good, and hey! How else is he going to make me feel better? Why does everything in my life have to go s**t because of the great and wise consulting detective?_

Sherlock almost laughed at how Molly censored her own writing to make it clean, alongside her deliberately weak insults. Of course, what happened in the removed pages he now couldn't find out. What if Moriarty had left him some kind of crucial hint, trusting Molly to write it down unknowingly? Her emotions were so impractical.

Sherlock went through the waste paper basket, hoping to find the removed pages. He turned with a sigh to the fire place in the living room. Sure enough, there was a small pile of ashes and the blackened curled remains of paper, unreadable and useless. Although… at second glance, there was too much ash. Sherlock suspected Molly had burnt rather more than just her diary pages.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This has taken forever because there were my mock exams this week! And all that revision. Sorry!

Might as well mention I still don't own Sherlock.

* * *

She flicked on the lights and changed into her lab coat. Molly was the only pathologist coming in today. _Everything looks very quiet again…_ But it always did without Sherlock demanding experiment results from her_._

She began filling out the papers left over from yesterday, her humming sounding odd against the slight whir of the fans. It was always cold in there, to prevent the bodies decomposing rapidly. Her phoned buzzed on the table.

What did you burn Thursday 27th?

SH

Oh he knew. _Of course he knew,_ yesterday, as she'd gone around the table clearing her plate and putting them in the sink, Sherlock had come out of his "mind palace" and begun … sort of… analysing her? Observing all of her life from the way she walked down to how she organised the dishwasher. Her flat was just the biggest give-away. _Is a pile of stupid paper really too much to hide?! He probably measured the ash… temperature or something._

It's nothing, just some old bills.

Molly

He might buy that. Maybe? _Why does he sign texts anyway? I can plainly see it's his number._ The phone quickly responded:

Bills organised by date in folder. Perhaps diary pages?

SH

_HE'S BEEN GOING THROUGH MY DIARY?!_ That was unbelieva… No, that was exactly what he would do. _Fine, he can try and figure it out by himself as well!_

Molly dropped the phone on the table and got on with work. Sherlock was more impossible to live with than she'd ever imagined. Keeping a diary was just a habit. It had been, was, useful, except for now. Margaret wouldn't have minded Sherlock, she'd have put him in check. But she was definitely gone. Molly's stomach knotted.

* * *

Why hadn't she responded? He'd miscalculated her reaction. He fell back onto the armchair, trying to think what information was missing. There was no chance she'd have copied anything down elsewhere and scanning the room hadn't gone as smoothly as Sherlock would've liked.

Under the bed, between boxes of photos of trips, Molly had hidden her Christmas gifts. John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had taken theirs that evening. Molly even remembered the boring teacher. This left only a bright red present, looking forlorn. He'd been cruel, but he'd apologised, was the present still his?

Sherlock held the package in his hands. The same shade as Molly's lipstick. As a technique Sherlock had to concede it worked. Sherlock pulled open the edge and slid the wrapping paper neatly off, revealing a small black box. At least Molly knew he wouldn't appreciate kittens and bows.

Sherlock pushed open the flap and turned the box upside down with a shake. A pair of black gloves fell out. Sherlock was pleased about Molly's practicality. An altogether more suitable gift than the jam she'd inexplicably made for John, or Lestrade's pocket watch.

* * *

There was little point remaining past her shift. She'd spent another uneventful day at work. _Not that I don't love my job, it just gets a bit lonely. Like the Corpse Bride, only real_. She picked up her mobile, wondering whether one of her friends might be free to meet up with, _I could do with a laugh._ Suddenly the phone bleeped, surprising her. She opened the text.

Naughty naughty Molly,

who's been keeping secrets?

Molly read it twice. Jim_… No, Moriarty_, had found Sherlock?

Molly was painfully aware of all the danger that involved for her, of the potential kidnapping and torture from Moriarty. It struck Molly that both of these men knew much too much about her and _I don't know anything about their plans. Both of them_.


	5. Chapter 5

There are two kinds of major decisions: the right ones, that always ruin lives and the wrong ones, which take a little longer to. Molly closed the door behind her and lent back on it. She had a choice. _I can tell Sherlock and hope he might not hate me. Or I can't._ She shuddered at the thought of everything that would entail if she told him, but was horrified at the idea of saying nothing. Again. The pills felt like a lead weight in her heart. _He wouldn't even look at me, with those._

Molly dragged down against the wall and sat, letting the warmth of the flat lull her into safety. She chose to wait for Sherlock to leave the sitting room, and _I'll make up my mind on what to say then_.

Outside, the last rays of sunlight trickled away from her, denying their heat to everything Molly cared for. Inside, she let the gentle fingers of sleep run their way through her mind, easing the darkness into comfort. Moriarty couldn't turn shadows into monsters. It seemed to her that there couldn't have been much that had gone normally in her life, at least not after the therapy years. She touched her pocket, knowing they were inside, waiting to be needed as they always had been.

"But I won't slip", she promised the walls. Nothing answered.

Toby, Master of shadows, walked towards Molly, pre-emptively purring and just as she reached out to stroke him, Sherlock followed. Both their faces were hidden and neither reached for the light. Molly could still feel his eyes scrutinising her and began to feel uncomfortable at the silence. She lowered her hand.

"So… um… Nice day, Sherlock?

-Tedious. Molly, why are you on the floor?

-Oh. um… I am, aren't I? … Just… stroking Toby?

The cat mewled loudly as if to justify her claims. Sherlock plainly heard the uncertainty behind Molly's words. She was hiding something, intriguing. He happily prepared himself for the process of questioning.

"What's wrong?

-Nothing, every thing's fine, I…

-You're fully capable of turning on the lights, yet you're choosing not to, you've been sitting in darkness since 6.30 this evening without moving. The cat required feeding 27 minutes ago, but you've ignored it. Not to mention the mascara on your face.

- It's… It's only a hard day and…

-You can't lie decently Molly, so don't."

Molly winced at his words. _That's the last straw_.

"When are you leaving Sherlock?

- Leaving?

- Yes."

Sherlock paused, wondering if he'd gone too far again.

Molly felt her resolution crumble. She'd never heard him be surprised before and, perhaps, hurt?

- It's… I mean… I'm glad you're alive but this… uh… this isn't working out. You're… bored? Yes. All the time and I can't help that and you…

Sherlock waited for her to finish. Molly apparently had thoughts in mind.

"You should be tracking down Moriarty's men.

-Molly, this may come as a surprise but I didn't come for a happy little party or pretend I'm dead to live here!

-What? I never… No, of course not Sherlock. That's not what I was…

-And your tiny tedious little flat is absolutely the last place I would come if I had to. Has it occurred to you that I am pre-empting his actions? Analysing his potential…

-No, no, I understand, I do, it's just you spend so much time on the couch I… Forget it, I was stupid."

Sherlock dropped down opposite Molly, breathing heavily. A bit not good, John wouldn't have liked that. Then again, John wouldn't like him anyway once he found out Sherlock had faked suicide. Molly didn't have to bring this up, he was perfectly aware what he appeared to be doing. John would've known.

Molly hated the anger in Sherlock's voice, _of course that's still going to hurt him. Poor Sherlock…_

Molly waited a little, in case Sherlock had more to add, but he stayed silent.

"I saw him, a few days after the funeral… He wasn't, … you know?…"

_Does he want me to say?_ After a break Molly took his quiet for a kind of acquiescence.

"He didn't look awful. I… He looked tired and…sad? Really sad… But he was coping, I guess. Not… moving on exactly, but not desperate either. I'm sure he'll understand you... had to, Sherlock."

He didn't move. Molly waited a little while longer, wondering whether she should talk about the text. _It might distract him. But then again he'd know for sure he jumped because Moriarty wanted him to, not because he outsmarted him. He must know Jim's still alive by now._

_No. Moriarty, Moriarty. Not Jim._

In the end she couldn't bring herself to. Maybe it was cowardliness. She preferred to think it was for Sherlock's well-hidden heart. Molly stood up quietly and walked towards her room. _I'll tell him tomorrow._

* * *

She went and Sherlock thought that maybe, maybe he'd been too harsh, getting angry over her inability to recognise work, his kind anyway. John looked "sad". Of course. Sherlock could flatter himself at having been able to maintain at least one functioning, if slightly odd by conventional terms, friendship. That he'd gone and broken, obviously. Mycroft was right on that front, caring wasn't an advantage. Molly couldn't see that. Sherlock hadn't seen that. He did now.

But if he did, why did thinking of John make him feel like he'd missed the key element to break a code?

He'd left a note, of sorts, for John. He wanted him to have something left behind and John did. What was it? The knowledge he was alive struck him as absurd, what was the point of being alive and not being around compatible people?

Molly was bearable. She'd successfully side-tracked his questioning. That was interesting. It must be something more important than Sherlock was expecting. Perhaps she'd seen John again. That would explain the crying, but not the cat.

Speaking of which, Molly had forgotten to feed it. Sherlock picked it up and then dropped it in front of Molly's door. He decided to go back onto the couch, to recline in the mind palace more comfortably. Perhaps an empty wing would be useful. To think of nothing, for a while at least.

* * *

**Well. Back again. Sorry. It took awhile. Been sitting on this for a bit tbh.  
**

**6th chapter also half-written. This is getting more and more angst-y. That's a shame. It's hard to see a light hearted side to Molly right now.**

**Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read and put up with interminable breaks. You are brilliant.**


	6. Chapter 6

Molly stood in front of the mirror. Not going was out of the question: Molly had successfully avoided Halloween parties for the last two years. She could only expect her friends to believe so many illnesses and injuries. A dribble of fake blood ran down her leg. Her face was covered in green concealer and her body in patches of foundation-coated tissue paper, glued on and finished off with unconvincing blood. Molly was pleased with the result; it was wonderfully unnoticeable for a scary costume. That was important given Molly wasn't comfortable with her friends' style of Halloween costumes. That was why she always went as the undead. _Nobody wants a sexy zombie!_ She pulled on a battered lab coat she'd cut up and dirtied to complete her outfit. _Nice and bland_.

Molly opened her bag and pulled out the pills. _Will I need these?_ Her hands felt a little shaky, but she put them back into a side pocket and took a few deep breaths. Checking she'd not forgotten to put keys in her bag, Molly crept to the door. Ideally Sherlock would be asleep. She pulled on the latch and…

"Molly, you're not going to that pointless _Halloween party_ are you?" Sherlock's disdain flooded the corridor.

"Well, um… I can't really avoid it…"

He strolled in from the living room and glanced over at her.

"I was under the impression only children still dressed as _howwible monsters_. Shouldn't you be in something revealing?"

Molly spluttered.

"Regardless, there is no way I'm passing up the one chance to leave this flat.

-What?

-I'm going too."

Molly looked at him, _Sherlock? At a party?_

"Wouldn't that stop you being… you know… dead?

-I'll dress up of course.

-You?

-Yes Molly. Costume is in fact an incredibly useful asset to have for a consulting detective which is, even when legally dead, my profession.

-Oh. I…"

Molly tried to think of reasons for him not to come.

"I don't think I'm allowed a plus one.

-These are college acquaintances meeting for a drunken gathering on a night when society condones this behaviour Molly. Commonly termed a piss-up. I doubt they'll mind.

- You're in hiding though, it would be really dangerous going out like this.

-Costume.

-Oh yeah. Um… I…

- I've not been outside these confines since I arrived and I'm bored. I'm definitely coming."

Molly took in his stubborn face and sighed. There was no point fighting this. _On his head be it then._

"What's your costume?"

Sherlock turned sharply around and walked into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. Molly was tempted to ask what he was doing but heard rummaging coming from within. She stood waiting silently. Sherlock emerged several seconds later and stood in the darkish doorway. He looked exactly the same, gorgeous and very recognizable.

"Um… Is that… That's it?"

He nodded. Molly scrutinised closer. Same dark suit, same hair, same…

A mask of his own face.

_Typical._

"Thank you for purchasing this Molly. I particularly like the small pinholes you've made. For breathing I imagine. Or dart throwing. Or voodoo."

Molly shrank in embarrassment. She'd liked sticking the mask at face height and talking to it. The same purpose as Toby. When Sherlock arrived she'd chucked it in the recycling. _Not far down enough apparently_.

"Why would you dress as yourself…?

-Molly I'm currently a disgraced public figure, perfectly suitable theme for a costume, and I won't have to modify my voice. Disguising myself as me is by far and away the best costume I've ever had."

Molly nodded briefly and walked out of the flat. The cab she'd ordered had arrived and she walked over to it, wobbling a little in her heels. She sat down on the left and Sherlock slid in next to her. She gave the address and the cab pulled out smoothly and joined the London traffic.

Molly felt uncomfortably tense. She had a fair few worries about this plan. Also she wasn't relishing the prospect of loud music and alcohol. _Well… maybe the second one_. She glanced over at Sherlock's odd double-face. He glanced back.

"You've got questions.

-Sort of… What if someone offers you a drink? You'd have to take off the mask…

-Tonight I'm a Mormon, Molly. I'm also your cousin and my name will be something inane and common… Felix.

-You're a Mormon?

-Of course not. Frankly, as long as people are sill murdered in an interesting fashion I don't have time for religious debate.

-Oh, right, yes.

-Judging by the Crucifix and the wine bottle in your room, as well as your country side upbringing, you're some form of lapsed Catholic, Protestant?

-Not lapsed really, just… unconvinced? I see a lot of those murdered bodies Sh… Felix. And it doesn't seem right…"

Molly didn't really want to talk about faith. She waited a little before asking:

"Do you… Do you like your name?

-Objectively there's nothing wrong with Felix."

Molly gave a slight cough. "And your second name?"

Sherlock paused and appeared to be weighing his words.

"It's not as much of a hindrance as people imagine."

Sherlock's tone was sharp and he went back to gazing out of the window. Molly understood she wasn't to ask more questions. Another five minutes and the cab arrived at the house. The music could be heard from the street. Molly paid the driver and turned to face it. Sherlock was already striding off to ring the doorbell. Molly sighed and stepped towards the porch. _Once more unto the breach…_

* * *

**It's been forever and that's about all I can say. I could say sorry. And I will: sorry my favourite Sherlock compadre.**

**I wrote a whole sketch about apologising for this. I'll save it for next time. Trust me, it'll be used.**

**Anyway, this is sort of a filler bit since I've been busy, etc., and stuff, indeed. If you find any grammatical or punctuation errors feel free to angrily message me and soften my guilt. But I love you all ridiculously vast amounts and Sorry.**


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock strode up the wide garden path and stopped at the door. The house was a large Kensington residence. Molly caught up with him, stumbling a little in her heels on the gravel. There was no point ringing the doorbell, no one would hear it and the door was on the latch, so Sherlock merely pushed it open to let them in. Molly glanced down both sides of the hall. "I'll find my friends shall I?" She near shouted. Sherlock followed her lead through the crowds, meandering around clumps of people drinking and laughing. The music prevented long communications.

Molly caught sight of her group of medical school friends on a side of a room. Sherlock quickly observed and deduced the six of them. Dull, but not objectionable. One of them was nursing a secret drinking indulgence.

"Hey! Molls! Great to see you! Told you she was coming guys. Who's your friend?

- Hi Becky. This is my… cousin, Fe…"

Sherlock cut in : "Sherlock Holmes, fraudulent detective"

Molly's friends laughed. Molly looked at him, unable to believe what she'd just heard, _he's trying to make them like him. He never does that! Where's the too-clever-for-you side we know and love?_ It broke her heart a little to hear Sherlock mocking himself.

"No, no, this is Felix, he's my cousin, he's just come over from, er…

- Oh come on _Molls_, you must know where I live…"

Molly scowled at his amusement and bit her lip. Perhaps she wasn't quite as sad if he was behaving like this. Her friends laughed again. Rebecca spoke to save Molly embarrassment: "Well, nice to meet you. We've got to go and talk about things, so help yourself to anything alright? Molly, do you want to drop off your stuff in my room?"

Sherlock nodded and could almost hear Molly's mental sigh of relief.

Formalities over, Sherlock strode over to a corner and nearly collapsed into an armchair. He'd had to mock himself: that was an intrinsic element of his _costume_. Molly had nearly given them away with her disappointed face. He tried to look inebriated to observe the costumed mass in peace. The whole purpose of the trip was to distract himself with some light entertainment.

Sherlock scrutinised the crowd dancing in the room. Most were in their mid to late twenties. He was surprised at their enthusiasm for what was, in effect, a house party. He glanced at a young woman in a sequined top, around Molly's age. Smoker, judging by her slightly yellowing nails, whose polish did little to conceal this. Probably recently split with her long term partner given the shadows under her eyes and her struggle for balance which clearly showed how drunk she was at a reasonably early stage of the festivities. Long term partner definitely, she was visibly _on the rebound_.Drowning your sorrows, wasn't that the expression. Boring.

Sherlock picked out another person, a man this time. Older than the rest of the people here, though trying to conceal this with youngish clothing. Two red stains on the sleeves of a crumpled shirt. Old stains, they'd dried out, so he didn't wash the shirt and the elbows were unworn despite the crumpled state. So he ignored it, only wore it to these places, a different kind of costume altogether. He hadn't touched a drink and his eyes darted around, on his guard. Suspicious, alert, some kind of petty dealer, attempting to mingle and expand his network, nothing to do with anybody here. Boring. Sherlock had no more interest in the short term relief drugs would bring. _You know how it upsets Mummy_, Mycroft said. Sherlock drifted from the present to his thoughts.

Would Mycroft realise he was alive? Sherlock had concluded before that if Mycroft had known he would be tracking anyone Sherlock was likely to make contact with. That excluded John then, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well, though Mycroft would be following them for Sherlock's sake. He would also keep tabs on Molly and attempt to find Moriarty's men. Sherlock hadn't observed any recurring figures around Molly's flat. Mycroft would be listening into what the homeless network were saying of course, which was why Sherlock couldn't use them. Perhaps even following some of his older and less savoury acquaintances in the east end, most likely not. Sherlock smirked as he realised this was exactly what he'd been considering at Molly's, trust Mycroft to spoil the party. Perhaps he ought to find Molly and keep a closer eye on her.

Sherlock snapped back outside his thoughts and looked around. She'd gone with her friends to "chat". He assumed they must know some kind of none verbal code to communicate with. Her friends were unbelievably straight forward. In some ways this was a relief, no agents of either side there.

He meandered through the crowd, not particularly wanting to go anywhere. The loud bass made the ceiling vibrate. Sherlock had forgotten how much noise people made to have fun. He was willing to concede it was certainly mind numbing. A faint odour of vomit and alcohol wafted from the toilet as he passed it. He pushed off a drunken nurse who accosted him in the corridor. The medical profession was letting itself down. He passed a few more rooms till eventually he spotted Molly. She was sitting with her group, laughing.

Sherlock stopped. Had she laughed before? Sherlock ran through his mind map of her as well as he could in the noise. He wasn't sure she had. She looked very eerie in the blue lights of the dance floor, making her zombie make up glow, very… Sherlock blocked off that trail of thought. Angry at his sudden weakness and satisfied she wasn't dead, he turned around. He needed to get out of that noise; it was strewing his carefully arranged mental space. Sherlock could almost see the walls of the mind palace shaking. He skulked off into darker corners.

Up a long flight of stairs that led to more corridors and large rooms it was quieter, but not silent. Sherlock wandered through a few rooms to try and find somewhere even more silent. He opened the door into a large white room, which was at the back of the house. There was a sizeable white bed with downy pillows and covers, pictures on a side table, two armchairs and a large white desk. A multicoloured canvas bag broke the uncoloured room. It was Molly's. Sherlock's mental John began muttering in his ear about privacy. Sherlock brushed him away without a thought and pulled the bag onto the desk.

It was filled with the odd things Molly carried with her. The usual makeup case, wallet, planner, keys and phone that were always in a woman's bag. She also had one of her fictions and a brief collection of essays on virology, as well as only the things Molly would have, which included a small brown teddy bear on a key ring.

Sherlock pulled out her phone and tapped in her password, which he'd seen before. Molly didn't receive many calls so he went straight for the texts. A few from her friends about this evening, a few from himself and… number withheld? Sherlock opened it.

Naughty naughty Molly,

who's been keeping secrets?

Received yesterday, what she was hiding and avoiding answering about, without a doubt. But why hadn't she told him? Well she was _keeping secrets_ then. Important information. That was new evidence. He'd survived the fall, definitely now. Whose side was she on, to withhold that? And those pages she'd burnt. Sherlock shut out everything. He had the horrid feeling he'd overlooked something crucial.

**I hope you all feel as stressed as I do now. That's the idea I tried to upload a little faster this time.**

**Mhouahaha!**


	8. Chapter 8

When Sherlock stopped to think about it there wasn't really anything wrong with Molly's mouth. Or breasts for that matter.

Of course if he'd had it his way he wouldn't have to stop and think about her at all.

In his Mind Palace, Sherlock pulled out every fact he knew about Molly and laid them bare to his skill. The obvious connection was between her and _Jim_; "keeping secrets". What sort? Sherlock analysed. Not of the usual sexual nature, that was too petty for Moriarty. Something from childhood? Sherlock knew rather little on that, beyond the abductive reasoning: strict upbringing, mild teen rebellion lead to later interest in death and pathology, which made her valuable to him. Again, little to hide.

Sherlock knew from Molly's diary Moriarty had visited her flat, he would also have taken the time to make these simple deductions on her past and her personality: non-confrontational, liberal, a love of all fluffy things. Sherlock saw all this in front of him and was annoyed at the lack of detail. But it had always been Molly's lack of mystery that was a mystery. It had to be something far more personal.

Sherlock pushed to one side the primary analysis, the criminal mastermind would be playing on something subtle. Again, he looked down at his knowledge, spread out across the tiled floor of the room in his head, and pulled out the categories he was excluding. And then he stopped. There were only small bits left, snippets, Sherlock paused to remember what each of them meant. Carefully stored in his head, Sherlock could see the sun leaking through the curtains of Molly's living room, and her disgruntled expression the first day of his stay, her smile when he'd made coffee out of courtesy. Peculiarly, Sherlock seemed to recall the warm sensation of the touch of Molly's hand, an odd thing of itself as he tended to categorise only varying levels of pain from different experiments. Irrelevant.

Sherlock shook himself mentally. It was probably the house music stopping him thinking clearly, he needed total silence. There was little to be gathered from these pieces, but carefully he put them back in the cupboard and began drifting into outward consciousness. There was only one solution to this problem and that must be something Molly wrote in the diary pages she'd burnt: she was hiding whatever was there from him, so balance of probability was that she hid that information from Moriarty.

Hid. She hid. Sherlock could've smacked himself. He was hiding there, that was the big secret. Obviously Molly wouldn't tell him Moriarty knew where he was, she'd assume he'd leave. Naturally, Sherlock had guessed Moriarty would find him reasonably fast, but clearly he'd really gone all out to find him.

Sherlock suddenly felt quite ashamed it had taken him so long to come to such a simple yet rational conclusion. Getting sidetracked around Hooper when Moriarty was the real target. He felt a sudden urge to re-enter the Mind Palace and destroy all of her file, but he knew another re-organisation purely due to her was off limits, it took time and effort to alter his hard drive. It would be better to return to the flat beforehand. Perhaps he should ask her about Moriarty anyway, he had a feeling this had been the cause of her upset the previous evening and she'd avoided questions then.

He got off the bed and put Molly's things back in her bag. The cardboard mask squashed his nose and was beginning to get humid from the water vapour in his breath and stickiness on his forehead, most likely sweat, made him uncomfortable. Sherlock began to think of the best way to interrogate Molly on her diary as he wandered back downstairs, towards the source of the noise and heat.

* * *

"You are sooooo preeettyyy…", Rebecca slowly slid down her chair, arms around Molly pulling both of them.

"Er, thanks Becks, I think you need to lie down now."

"Noo I don't… I'm…

-Drunk?"

Rebecca giggled and waved a finger in the air.

"But only a little!"

Molly smiled and lifted her friend up before she fell off the chair.

"Can you walk?"

She nodded.

"Ok then, let's get you on the couch"

Molly put her arms around her and shuffled through what was left of the people there. It was getting very late. She struggled over to a sofa and dropped her on it.

"You going to be alright?

-Oooh yes."

Molly smiled again and turned to go find Sherlock.

"Molls! Don't forget… No, shhhh come closer…", Rebecca grabbed Molly's lab coat and pulled her back.

"What?

-Clooooser…

-What is it?

-Shhh...

-Ok, what?"

Rebecca's eye lids drooped.

"I love you…

-O.K… me too."

Leaving her to sleep there, Molly began pushing her way back through the crowd towards the chair she'd last seen him in, happy to have seen her friends and let her hair down, despite her dislike for really loud noise. _Is it any surprise I work in a morgue?!_ She tried to avoid the flailing arms of a clearly insane dancer.

"Molly we're leaving."

Molly jumped about a foot in the air, Sherlock had crept right up and spoke loudly right in her ear. With her heart twice the average speed she nodded and they wove their way out, Sherlock handing over her bag and picking up his coat as they went through the door.

Over the gravel path which Molly struggled with even more thanks to the combination of heels and drink.

"Did you get a taxi?"

In response Sherlock simply nodded to the end of the road, where a cab was coming round towards them, "I've got questions."

* * *

**It's been a lo-o-o-ong**

**A long time coming**

**But I kno-o-o-ow**

**A chapter's gonna come, **

**oh yes it will.**


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